


Calling Card

by worldswrst (thehotinpsychotic)



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, brallon, brallon oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6090376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehotinpsychotic/pseuds/worldswrst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dallon, neurotic to a fault, visits a strip club in a desperate attempt to try to get his past lover out of his mind. Finding no solace in the swarming, sweating bodies of barely legal strippers, he actually becomes so wound up in his anxious tendencies and negative thinking that he is sick. In the bathroom, he finds a very interesting piece of graffiti, the only scribbling on a bathroom stall that will irrevocably change not only his mood, but his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calling Card

Walking in there, head low and a single hand grasped strategically over the pants pocket holding my wallet, I know that it’s the lowest thing I’ve ever done.

              This is the epitome of existing as a benign cyst. In all of the history of being a shit soaking, time wasting, waste of public education and poor excuse for a son, this has to take the cake. “I’m disappointed in you, Dallon.” Yeah, me too. In a history of bad decisions and worse reactions, this has got to be the most awful thing that I’ve spent a minute on. Technically, I spent more than I minute; I used 18 entire minutes before bordering a nervous breakdown and excusing myself to the washroom. I want to feel sorry for myself with my shaking hands and my inner montage of terrible choices, but cannot muster the self-pity due to the fact that I put myself in this position.

            I never thought I’d be throwing up in the piss stained bathroom stall some crummy strip club.

            How did I get here? I wish I could say something understandable like a Bachelor Party, but I’m not getting married and I don’t have friends my own age. A lot of my friends are a bit younger; leaning around the age of 19, or they’re much older, teetering on the edge of a midlife crisis. The college bait, baby faced punk kids I know are too terrified to talk to anyone they’re attracted to, and the latter are about as interested in marriage as they are in a vasectomy.

            No, I’m not here because some guys are convincing me that this is the best way to spend my last night as an unmarried man (as if the answer were in these glitter covered, spindly broads who really don’t want to give me a lap dance as much as they pretend to.)

            I guess I can say it’s not my fault. Yes, I can pinpoint this exact plight to not a single moment, but one individual person. While the thought of this person makes my blood boil and penis invert, I am a gentleman and for this reason, I will keep her identity sound (but her name starts with M and rhymes with Tallory. Also, she lives at 202 Maple Drive.)

            So, little miss rhymes with Tallory is a girl who brews storms in her steps, leaving destruction in her wake. With lips of butter and candy and eyes like stone, she can make anyone believe anything in a matter of seconds. Everything about her is mystical and hypnotizing; I would feel in a trance by her mere presence. As brilliant as she is, she ruins what she cannot have. She’s the Trojan Horse of the Las Vegas dating scene; you call yourself lucky to have her until she breaks from the wooden structure to slit your throat while you sleep. Boys like myself, boys of feeble worth and shifting eyes, flock to her like lambs to the slaughter. Then their grinded little muscles go onto the supermarket shelves to be consumed by families, friends, and friends of families and friends. If you knew the truth, you could recognize a victim. It’s never a game of chance with her; it’s a rigged carnival game where the basketballs are wider than the hoops.

            She’s as vile as she is convincing, and I fell into her trap just like any other boy of meager skin. It’s been some four months now since the incident, and it haunts me still. She’s been gone longer than she’d been around, yet I still yearn for her daily.

            I’m not heartbroken; I’m heartruined, because there’s no shot of repairing this mess.

            Being a man devoid of emotion and conscience, I soon found myself sweating through my shirt and into the tainted booth of this scummy place. I hate it with its tacky lighting and booming speakers, grimy floors and overpriced drinks. I resent mostly everything about this place; the sole redeeming quality is the potential for waiter to drop a tray of drinks, which would make me laugh. Almost twenty minutes in the hot seat, and no waiter is spilling shitty expensive drinks, and I am not laughing. There’s no relief, no pleasure, just guilt and discomfort. I feel like the dirtiest guy in the whole world, like the most pathetic, grubby creep as I try to avoid eye contact with the half-naked girls.

            I don’t know what triggers it. There’s never a moment in that building that I don’t feel shitty about everything I’ve ever done and all that I am, but for some reason, I start to feel really sick. Not even sick in the metaphorical way of being disgusted with myself (which I totally am, don’t get me wrong), but I feel physically  _ill._ Like, I have to bolt for the door and run to the bathroom and knock over whoever’s in my way just to have my half-digested supper hit the toilet and partly splash in my face.

            That’s just what I do, and way more gets on me than I ever anticipated. As soon as I feel like my knees aren’t about to give out beneath me, I recollect myself, pulling myself to the sinks to tend to the fresh vomit drying to my face and hands.

            I’m wiping myself down with these sandpaper paper towels that are totally not environmentally friendly, but I feel not only so shitty but also so stupid and awkward at the moment that I don’t take time to think about all the trees I’m wasting. Fuck it; someone will plant more.

            Once I’m toweled off, I discard them, realizing only then that I’d never flushed the toilet I’d used, leaving the remnants of my chicken alfredo floating in the bowl in watery chunks. I gag a little as I approach it; the smell is unbearable. I flush the thing, wanting nothing more than to wash my hands for a second time, when I stop.

            There’s graffiti on the bathroom stall. Well, there’s graffiti all over the damned thing, but for some reason, this particular piece is the one that truly catches my eye. Among the sea of blue and black and red ink, block lettering and scribbled genitalia, I find one simple sentence, followed by some crucial data.

            “Any testosterone boys out there? -B 344-823-1837”

            Dumfounded, I reread the thing a few thirty times before finally reaching a conclusion. A prostitute left a little advertisement. I glance down at my bulging pants pocket, the borders of my phone rising through the denim temptingly. I thumb the thing for a bit. Or maybe she’s not a prostitute. Maybe she’s just a girl who never does these things, a girl who’s bashful and smarter than she’ll admit. Say some girlfriend dragged her in here, convinced her to do something spontaneous. Let’s be wild, she would have said. Be bad for once in your life.

            Either that or it’s a drug dealer, but I try not to think of that so much as I dial the number.

            The line rings a few times, the tone hollow and nagging. Finally, someone picks up. “Hello?”

            Wait, that’s not a woman’s voice. That voice unmistakably belongs to a man.

            “ _Hello?_ ”

            Shit, he’s getting impatient. Could he be her boyfriend, answering her phone while she’s in the shower? What would piss him off more than some stooge from a titty bar calling up his girl? Oh God, he’s going to kick my ass. He’s going to hunt me down and kick my ass into smithereens.

            “Look, asshole, this is-”

            I hang up before he can finish, leaving his sentence as unresolved as everything in my life. Heart pounding, I stand there, thankful that I’d kept cool enough to manage not to say anything. No way he’ll be able to do anything about the call; how could he possibly trace it back to me? After all, I hadn’t said a word. Sure, he’ll have my phone number, but that won’t give him any answers. For the first time in my life, paying into awkward silences has worked in my favor.

            Taking more time to allow my stomach to settle, I stare myself down in the mirror for a moment, not really thinking about anything except the sour taste in my mouth. Perhaps I could go get a drink, and not an alcoholic one, but a fountain soda that probably is too watery for my taste. Just anything to get this acidic disaster off of my tongue.

            How much time I spend recollecting myself, I can’t be sure. It must’ve been anywhere between ten and twenty minutes, but I if I know one thing, it’s that when I started the process of recuperation, I was in that restroom alone. But when I look up in the mirror, there’s a man standing off behind me, his shoulders square with the door.

            Having seen him, I jump a little, my shoulders reaching for my ears and feet stumbling. The stranger in the mirror smirks, a small grin that can’t be missed with lips as full as his. A smile so menacing spreads across his lips that the thought of dying crosses my mind. Dying itself sounds like something I could get onboard with, but the thought of falling to my knees on this concrete, cum-spotted floor, riddled with all sorts of mysterious hair and odors, is too much to bear. Perhaps he’ll drag me out by the front of my shirt and then place a stab wound just off my liver, tossing me to the ground and letting my blood ooze onto the floor and pick up loose glitter, bringing it across the tile in a sort of red, sparkly river. Although the floor outside of the bathroom looks more inviting (which isn’t saying much), I realize how utterly humiliating it’d be to be caught dead in a strip club with sixteen dollars and a library card in my pocket. No matter what the case may be, I’d be sooner caught with my pants down near a toilet like the late, great Elvis Presley than within a mile of a strip club. People pity a man who died relieving himself, but who would pity a pervert?

            “You call me?” the man asks. His voice fills the room, ricocheting off of walls and ceilings just to amplify itself. It’s a voice much like that of rhymes with Tallory due to the fact that it makes me excessively sweaty and induces inversion of private parts of my body.

            Unable to speak, I stand there dumbly. I am a scholar, one who has excelled in English and fine literature for as long as I’ve lived, one who studies among the likes of Shakespeare and Hemingway. This is the first time that words have failed me, and it won’t be the last. At least I can credit myself on keeping quiet; the last thing I want is to foolishly reveal crucial information. Relaxing my tense jaw, I prepare myself to put him on the spot. “How’d you find me here?” Shit.

            “Tracked your phone call,” he answers calmly, advancing towards me. Unconsciously backing up, I falter and plant my ass right into a sink, which breaks the tension to a degree; it’s hard to intimidate a man when his ass is soaked with water, spit, and god knows what else that was coating that porcelain. In fact, the tension is more than broken; it completely thaws away. Stifling a laugh, the man shifts his footing, crossing his arms. He looks so chuffed, standing there with his cheeks rosy and licking his lips that I have to hide a chuckle myself, demanding, “How did you track my phone call?”

            Leaning forward out of the sink, I stand once more, demonstrating my vast height over the stranger. I’m a couple of heads taller, and while he can probably murder me with his bare hands, at least I can unintentionally graze my head against thresholds and car ceilings.

            “I didn’t,” he admits, grinning still. Bemused, I open my mouth to ask how he found me, but he must read my mind, for he continues, “There’s only one place in this city that has my number, and you are currently within yards of it.”

            Taking a moment to process all that he’s said, I choose my question carefully. Why wouldn’t he assume a friend of a friend of a friend loaned me his number? Why would he automatically jump to the conclusion that someone not only noticed his graffiti but had the audacity to look into it? Only then does it register that he’s not some chick’s boyfriend, no, he is the supposed chick. “That’s  _your_ phone number?”

            I must look really shocked as his smile falls from his face. He becomes defensive, raising his chest in the slightest as he retorts hotly, “Yes, it’s a men’s bathroom, I’m a man, what about it?”

            “I really thought it would be a chick,” I confess. His dark brows furrow, and that’s the moment when I’m positive I’ve signed my death warrant. I more than signed it; I freaking put down all arms and told him to fire. With a small frame and big attitude, he seems to be a man riddled with testosterone, one compensating for god knows what with whatever he sees as masculinity. His ego is as fragile as it is colossal, and if there’s one thing these guys hate; it’s any implication that they are not a man.     

            Instead of jumping to the offensive and bashing my head into the sink, he cries defensive, squeaking, “What? Why would you think that?”

            Having expected my blood to be spilling by now, I am caught somewhat off guard. As I try to come up with some half-assed reply, the silence is so palpable that I almost prefer having my ass kicked. “I dunno, it’s a men’s restroom; I just thought it’d be a girl.”

            The guy scoffs, scoffs right in my face with the confidence of a man who’s about to wrestle a toddler for the heavyweight championship. It’s maddening, infuriating almost. The momentary thought of launching myself from across the room at him passes my mind, but I discard the idea because I don’t want my jacket to get dirty when I land. “You got that ass-backwards, pal. What would a woman be doing in here?”

            “What would a man be doing writing his number on the wall?” I retort, and as soon as the words leave my lips, I know the answer. For what feels like the hundredth time this week, I want to swallow my words. I want to take back everything I’ve ever said; I want to wash my mouth with lye and water just to prevent this from ever happening again. The burns would do me good; I’ve always had a big mouth.

            This is approximately the fourth time that I’m sure I’m about to be beaten to a pulp. Just like all the other times, it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t even seem offended; he almost giggles as he responds, “What, a bachelor can’t be on the lookout for cock?”

            A year wouldn’t have been long enough to prepare for that sentence to come out of his mouth. Prostitution again wafts into my thoughts, bringing the number of times I’ve considered this to an unhealthy amount. Of course, you can’t ask someone if they’re a prostitute; it’s something that you only question after weeks of intimacy, like if they’re sexually attracted to animals, or, even worse, if they’re a Republican. It would be an utmost slap to the face to ask him something so personal; I’d almost rather bring bestiality to the table.                    

            Any chances of mentioning the fetish are shot down the drain when he mentions, “I’m not a hooker, if that’s what you’re thinking. Think of it as an easier, more interesting path to blind dates.”

            “I’m straight,” I blurt. God, I almost want to root around in cabinets for some spare bleach to gargle. Never mind the strip club, this is the peak of all the shitty things I’ve done in my lifetime. Maybe I could write a novel on what it’s like to be the embodiment of steaming sewage.

            “Okay,” he replies. He doesn’t seem upset, or even irritated. With eyes taunting me, he suggests, “You’ll probably be opposed to this seeing as you have a touch of the excessive heterosexuality, but maybe we could go get a beer.” An unwavering gaze on his face, he adds, “No homo, though. Just boys being boys.”

            And the award for the most loathsome piece of shit on this side of Nevada goes to Dallon Weekes. Not only am I the most aggressively filter-free mouth to ever exist, but my recently added title as Obliterator of the Gays only seals my position as the winner.

            When he says “go get a beer,” I imagine that we’ll leave the strip club and go to a neighboring bar; there’s plenty to choose from. I expect him to pick the dingiest, most daunting bar just so he can bash my skull in with an atmosphere to accommodate the situation. Either that or he’ll skip the bar altogether and lead me into a back alley. Alleys are the worst; bugs always seem to make themselves welcome in any and every crevice available. These fears aren’t realized, or at least not immediately, because he leads me directly from the bathroom to the lounge area of the strip club. Imagine that, a strip club with a lounge area. We might as well equip funeral homes with swimming pools. A person who can relax in a strip club is a person who can stare into the eyes of God himself as they reject the gates of heaven and descend into Hell.

            That person seems to be this man. He orders a martini and sips from it as casually as though he were having a meal with an old friend rather than being in a swarming pit of despair and self-esteem regularities. That is, a swarming pit of despair and self-esteem regularities with breasts. Normally, I attach this kind of apathy to a lack in conscience, but in this case, I have to consider sexual attraction. Could that be what allows him to sit there, not thinking about these girls’ formidable trials and failures?

            “This martini’s good,” he mentions, licking some stray drops from his lower lip.

            Even if that’s not the case, maybe this sort of neutrality isn’t a bad thing. There’s been many a time where I’ve wanted nothing more than to stop caring. Maybe if I didn’t consider every single factor of each of these naked girls’ lives, maybe then I could just sit back and watch the ripple of their flesh and enjoy myself.

            “How’s your water?” That bastard’s biting back a smile, I know it.

            My view lowers to meet my drink, the glass more suitable for scotch that’s been filled instead with tap water so murky that I am not drinking it. “It looks like a swamp.” He chuckles softly, and I take the brief period of relief to mention, “I don’t drink.”

            Those dopey brown eyes of his nearly triple in size. Lips parting slightly, his brows furrow as he stammers, “Wh-what you-do you- you don’t drink? Why? Why wouldn’t you drink?”

            Now’s his turn to be the asshole. I relish the moment. “I was an alcoholic.”

            How’s it feel to be in the hot seat, Mr. Martini? Yeah, you with your voluminous lips and sappy eyes and coiffure. No amount of hair gel will help you regain your self-worth. Take this moment for all that it is; it’s the biggest roast of your life and you’re missing it.

            Except he hardly misses a beat. Call me neurotic, but I can’t fathom the idea of making that much of a fool of myself and not immediately hating everything I’ve ever done and everything I am. No, he jumps right back into the conversation, he even makes himself look good by suggesting, “Why don’t we get out of here?”

            “And go where?” It’s hard to think that anywhere besides a bar or strip club would be open at this hour, and I’m desperate to leave the booze and take a rain check on the boobs.

            “How about my place?” he offers. “It’s only a couple blocks from here. I walked, but the night’s not too chilly.” He’s taking longer sips of his drink now, probably trying to finish it just in case I do want to accept his invitation. Hell, he’s anticipating my actions. Damn it; I hate when people anticipate my actions! If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people leaping to assumptions about what only I can control. Part of me wants to say no just to shove it to him, but the other part of me is reminded about my lackluster social life, and so I tell him, “Sure, man, let’s go.”

            We step out into the moderate breeze of the Nevada streets. The lights are beaming and glaring, the shadows bounce and cars stripe the highway. A particularly strong gust of wind greets me and I must pull my jacket tighter; he asks, “Cold?”

            I shake my head, stuffing my hands into my pockets as I insist, “No.” The joke’s on him; I am freezing.

            “Did I ever get your name, kid?” Scooping a pebble from the ground, he sizes it up in his palm before flinging it at a street pole. The metallic clang seems to echo and hang in the air.

            Wait, who is he to be calling me kid? I’ve got six inches on the guy and he has the sheer nerve to call  _me_  kid? Oh, I want to punt him; I want to pick up his 5’9” body and toss it into the air and bring my loafer so hard to his ass that it catapults him into the next century. These thoughts racing through my head, I snap, “Who are you to call me kid?”

            Holding up his hands in a mock surrender, he assures, “Dude, it’s an expression, relax.” Lowering his hands back to his sides, he taps my arm, repeating, “What’s your name?”

            “Dallon,” I answer, still having half a mind to throw him against a street sign like he had done with that pebble and light pole. “Yourself?”

            “Brendon.” There’s a short silence, which, as usual, is broken by him. “Hey, both of our names end in ‘don.’” Good god, is he a simple minded man. “Now begs the question of whose mother hates them more; the one who smoked throughout her pregnancy with me, or the one who deliberately named her son Dallon?” Shit, that humor was right up my alley; it even had a neglectful mother involved. His joke almost distracts me from the offhanded insult and despite the fact that the moment seems to have passed, I challenge, “And what’s wrong with the name Dallon?”

            Seeming caught off guard by my response, he laughs sharply, pointing out, “You take more offense to a joke about your name than you do to an insult of your relationship with your mother.”

            “And?” There’s that knowing smirk again. Boy, how I want to wipe it off his face; what is he getting at? Is he trying to figure me out? Because I won’t let him, and if he ever did know all there was to know about me, he’d be sorely disappointed by how lousy and dull the story is. It’s not a story of triumph and love, nor is it a story of tragedy and pain. It’s right smack in the middle, undesirable at either extreme. No one’s interested in this story; even the big guy in the sky writing it has gotten bored and allowed it to shift off the rails.

            Brendon clears his throat loudly, glaring at me. How long had I been out? “That tells me that you either really dig your name or you really resent your mother.” He is trying to withdraw information. Butt right out, Brendon. “I’ll put my money on the latter.”

            Never having been a man to burden others with my troubles (and also being a sucker for classic trust issues), I merely shake my head and scowl, “Shut up.”

            Most of the walk is silent; we exchange a few comments here and there, mostly regarding surrounding cars and such. Every now and then a taxi will drive by, it’s yellow paint recognizable for miles, and the occasional muscle car with muffled bass booming from within it will pass. Spotting a Bug, Brendon punches me squarely in the shoulder, chirping, “Slug bug.”

            Sweet Jesus, is his fist made of steel?! It feels as though Satan himself has planted fiery fist into my arm, bruising the muscle, shattering the bone, and sending shards of collagen in every direction. Marrow is free to float into my bloodstream; bone marrow probably isn’t toxic, but I don’t think it should be making rounds in my veins, either.

            Although I’m having an internal crisis comparable to that of a nuclear war, I can’t show that. Sure, I may want to punch every single stupid cartooned face on the pain chart and max that fucker out, but can I show that? Of course not! I’ve already established my role with him as the homophobic dude bro that is dead inside, and I’m not about to forfeit that now.

            I opt for shoving him slightly, cursing, “Dickbrain.”

            “That’s professor dickbrain to you,” he retorts, smiling still. That idiot; he’s not supposed to be grinning right now. For the love of God, it’s 12:23 a.m. on a Tuesday and the streets are as congested as ever and the skies are the same clouded hue and the radio plays the same dozen songs it always done and literally no one in this town is happy. Yet there he is, happy as a clam. It’s sickening, the amount of joy he harbors.

            “Where’s your damn apartment?” I groan, shivering slightly. I have half a mind to hail a taxi, but I really don’t know how close we are, and with the way things seem to go, it’d be a mere block and I would look like an asshole as I leave the cab without a tip. It’s startling, the amount of times that I make an ass out of myself. At this rate, I should try a hand at politics.

            “Impatient, are we?” His tone is as arrogant as everything else about him, from the top of his carefully styled hair to the soles of his $70 boating shoes (which he wears with pants that aren’t cuffed like some kind of bozo.)

            “Cold,” I admit. Pumping my shoulders a bit to try and warm up, I pick up the pace slightly. “Are we anywhere near your place?”

            Tilting his head upward to the left, he answers, “Yeah, I hope you’re not opposed to stairs.”

            Stairs? Stairs are my mortal enemy; they always have been. From day one, they’ve been a challenge. They turn me, a man of great athletic aptitude, into a wheezing ball of dough. Weaker men have died, I’m sure. I should’ve known they’d find me eventually; no matter how much I run, I can never take the steps necessary to avoid them. “Do I have to use the stairs?”

            Brendon leads me into a building. He heads towards the stairs without wiping his shoes on the clearly placed doormat, almost seeming to hint at the dangerous life he leads. The soles of my feet are practically ground to powder as I rub the dirt onto the mat. “The mat’s there for a reason, you know.”

            Ignoring the latter comment, Brendon starts up the stairs, tracking small specks of mud as he tells condescendingly, “Look, you can take the elevator if you want, but I take stairs because I am a civil being.”

            Is he accusing me of primal behavior when  _he_ was the one to not wipe his feet? The man is a Neanderthal. “What’s more modern than machinery?” I challenge, tapping the elevator button with the back of my hand. “What floor?”

            “3,” Brendon answers. There’s somewhat of a glimmer in his eyes, a hint of childlike playfulness that makes him declare, “Beat you to the top.”

            With that, he’s gone, taking the steps two, almost three at a time. Hell, I didn’t come for a fight; what did I ever do to deserve this? I didn’t even agree anything; he didn’t give me a chance to do more than stand there before he leapt up the steps like some kind of genetically altered lion human hybrid. Adding insult to injury, the elevator won’t start. I smack the button some forty times before finally giving in and rushing up the stairs, taking two at a time and finding that impressive in itself.

            Brendon beat me by what seems like a mile. All but collapsing at his feet, I pant, “Who the hell invented stairs and what did anyone ever do to them?”

            “Christ, you act like three flights is Everest,” Brendon chides. “For a string bean, you are out of shape, my friend. You’re skinny and all that, but I can guarantee you that you are rotting from the inside out.”

            “What, just because I can’t jump up steps four at a time?” I wheeze.

            “It was not  _four_ ,” Brendon scowls.

            Finally giving in to what I really want most at that moment, I lay flat on my back, allowing my chest to rise and fall in heaving breaths as I struggle to recollect myself. “I think I pulled something.”

            “And the Academy Award goes to Dallon….” Brendon pauses, asking, “Last name?”

            “Weekes,” I reply. “Dallon Weekes.”

            “Brendon Urie, charmed, again.” Brendon hovers over me, peering down into my face. Feeling like some sort of a specimen, I squirm under his microscopic eye. Only after giving me a final once over, he offers a hand to me. Who is he to try to help me up after all that fitness guru bullshit? He’s read one too many Men’s Health magazines, that’s for sure. Perhaps in his apartment I can infiltrate his mail and cancel the subscription. Is that considered a crime? Would it fall under the mail tampering category, making it a felony? Would I be tried? Shit, I don’t work well under pressure, the judge would find me guilty for sure! I’d go to jail... I’d never make it in jail; I’m sensitive! Not to mention, I have a shy bladder! Good Lord, I’ve hardly considered my excretory habits; how could I have forgotten!?

            Why is Brendon staring at me? Oh yeah, the hand. Happy to prevent a future conflict, I accept it, allowing him to pull me to my feet with a grunt. “Come on, big guy.”

            Digging a hand into the back pocket of his khakis, he pulls out a jumble of assorted keychains, so crowded with charms and trinkets that I hardly even realize there’s a key in the mess until he inserts it into a door and swings it open.

            “Welcome to my home. There’s a dog; hope you’re not allergic, toilet’s the far door on the left, if you hear moaning it’s just the couple in the apartment above me, don’t talk to the neighbors; they’re strange, and pardon the mess,” Brendon rambles. Catching less than a third of what he’d said, I mumble, “Jeez, it’s not like I’m living here.”

            “But I do, and I can’t have anything that an ill-informed guest does jeopardize my functioning within my home or contaminate my relations with surrounding residents,” Brendon reasons. He falls back onto this ugly, green sofa with pilled balls of cloth covering every square inch. Sitting next to him, I catch a good whiff of the thing; it smells distinctly like a mix of wet dog and body odor. There’s a few mysterious stains as well, all of which I pointedly avoid contact with. With the silence becoming a little long for my taste, I glance over at Brendon for something to say, just to see that he has his eyes closed. Am I going to crash here for the night? I could, right on this smelly couch adorned with crusted spills and tears. Sliding back to align my back with the seat, a loose spring catches my side, making jump a little. I shut my eyes as well, not in order to fall asleep, but mostly just to try and relax. Sleeping on this thing would be impossible; between the odor and the rusted, grasping springs, I would never allow myself to lose consciousness here.

It starts with a tickle, a mere brushing of lips against my own, but it quickly becomes more than that. Fighting the urge to open my eyes, I permit things that would have made me gag back in high school. Why not take a look, you ask? The answer is one of strategy, the strategy being not to give that Urie bastard any kind of satisfaction. Any kind of reaction from me would only warrant his arrogant behavior, so it is crucial that I maintain a calm disposition. Cool as a cucumber, I let my head fall back, allowing him to start sucking at my neck. Lips warm and soft against my skin, I bite the inside of my cheeks to help suppress any moans or irregular breathing. Remember, he can’t know that I even remotely enjoy this.

          “Whatever happened to being straight?” I finally open my eyes to see that permanent snickering smile of his; his eyes glisten with assumed triumph. Almost wanting to give into him, I consider admitting that the kiss… wasn’t terrible. In fact, I’m questioning all kinds of things right now; I can’t even tell which way is up, to be frank. Of course, he can’t know that. Persisting with my aloof exterior, I coolly mention, “You were the one to kiss me.”

          “You never stopped me,” Brendon points out.

          Rats; he’s onto me. Gosh, I bet he can see right through me! No, get it together, Dallon. Quick, think of a diversion. It’s either that or shove him off and make a run for it. I’d consider the latter, if only I hadn’t taken off my Converse sneakers at the door. Lacing those up would take centuries; no way I’d be able to pull a fast one. Back to diversion, damn it. “I twitched.”

          Like some kind of animal, I resort to my instinctual behavior, the kind that tells me to lie and make excuses when I don’t want to admit that I’m wrong. Although it’s failed me many times in the past, I will always turn back to it, limping and pleading. Sure, it fucks me up worse almost every single time, turning what was a shallow hole into a seven-foot grave. Digging yourself in deep is easy when you have no other way to get out. “I twitched.”

          Brendon raises one arched eyebrow, grinning knowingly. By this point, I’m wondering whether or not he can read my thoughts. With this in mind, I do what any rational person would do and instruct him to blink twice, but he does not comply. Oh, he’s fucking with me; he retains that cocky smile. “Twitched?”

          With a slight nod and a tightened jaw central to my approach, I answer calmly, “Twitched. Your stubble tickled me.”

          He scoffs, dropping his gaze temporarily. “It’s a shame you’re straight.”

          Is he patronizing me? On the list of things that I hate, patronizing is a very close second, falling behind only the previously discussed anticipation of my actions. I’ll show him to patronize me, that no good condescending scoundrel. “Are you patronizing me?”

          Waiting for a response is maddening, and I swear that the little shit almost intentionally gives a few extra moments just to prolong the agony. “I can.” He shifts over into my lap, looping his arms over my shoulders and behind my back as he leans in to whisper, “What are you going to do about it?”

          Son of a bitch; I’m having feelings. My heart is fluttering like some kind of caged bird, except if that fucker tries to sing, I’ll choke it dead. That’s what I’ve always done; repressed my emotions until my face turned blue. It was all I could do; it wasn’t long before I learned that the best way to get over things is to act like you don’t care. But here I am, with this goddamn man straddling my thighs like some kind of stripper, only he doesn’t want my money; he just wants me. He’s not acting like this because it’s his job, but because he wants to. Maybe realizing this is what keeps my stomach even, or at least fair compared to the state it was in at the club.

          There are those eyes, those big, sappy doe eyes dripping with sweetness. He pouts, still waiting quietly for a reaction. Isn’t that just the way he always works; he does everything to get a rise out of me. Each move is calculated with some sort of rationality I can’t seem to grasp. There’s a method to his madness, but knowing this doesn’t help when I’m not sure what that method is. All I can do is brace myself and let it wash over me, just like waiting a storm out. That’s what he is, he’s a storm, barging into my life and making my head spin. To think that I was going to let him go down on me. Wait, was I?! Head a jumbled mess, I murmur something unintelligible.

          “You okay, man?” Brendon asks. For the first time, he actually seems humble, timid even. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

          Shit, he’s panicking, and that’s making me panic! Stop the never ending train of panic and end it now Dallon, nice and easy, three words, say them now. “Where’s the bathroom?”

          That is not what I wanted to say. Someone contact the brain; speech has gone AWOL. All but falling over myself to make the correction, I stammer, “I meant I-I like you, I like you a lot.” Brendon’s eyes widen and roses cluster in his cheeks, making me stop and slow down, reassuring, “I like you, Brendon. I want this.”

          Ducking his head, a strand of dark hair falls loose, dangling in his face. Reaching out slowly, I tuck it behind his ear, planting a small kiss nearby. “I want more.”

          Baring a devilish grin, Brendon lifts his eyes to meet mine, telling with a smile, “Well, I’ve got plenty to offer.”

          But the thing is, when he says it, I totally believe him. I don’t try to question his motives or analyze his speech, but I just take it for what it is and am thankful for that. Totally grateful and living in the moment, I see myself a stranger. This is not who I am, not who I ever was, and not who I ever pictured myself being. Everything that’s served me over the years is being cast to the wind; consider it ancient history. At that moment, none of those things matter, not rhymes with Tallory or my regressing relationship with my mother, not even the bastard in kindergarten that had taken my snack. Looking over into his eyes, I know that it’s all I care about, and that’s completely fine. Gazing into my eyes, something tells me that Brendon's on the same page.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading; I had a lot of fun writing this one! Please comment and leave a kudos behind if you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Tumblr: teenbrendon  
> Twitter: jediurie  
> Instagram: ierosaint


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